The Do-Over(45)

T. I liked that. He called me T.

“Hey.” I stretched, pulling myself up on the pillows and taking the steaming mug he was handing me. “Mmmm.”

“It’s a little before sunrise. I thought it would be fun to sail into it.”

“Sounds perfect.” I leaned forward to kiss his tantalizing lips – just because they were there. And I could.

Wes laughed. “No. That’s perfect.” And with a ruffle of my hair. “See you topside.” And he left me with my coffee to pull it together.

It was just so easy to be with this man.

As I climbed up on deck, we were just pulling away from our slip and heading out into Manhasset Harbor. The sky was still black and dotted with stars. This was truly a fitting restart to where we’d once stalled so long ago and I was loving the synergy of the continuation. Where we once before ended at dawn, today it signified a new beginning.

With the marina’s now shimmering lights behind us and the edges of the eastern sky brightening, I went and stood next to Wes in the cockpit as we watched dawn break together. It was officially a new day.

“Can I be doing anything to help? Cook breakfast? Hoist sails?” Even I had to laugh at the last suggestion.

“I could eat.”

“So how do you like your eggs, Mr. Bergman?” I really knew so little about him.

“There isn’t an egg I don’t like, T. Surprise me.”

Smiling. “You got it. Sail on, sail on, Sailor.” I quoted The Beach Boys and disappeared down into the salon.

Opening every little cubby in the kitchen and marveling at its efficiency, I should not have been surprised at how well Wes had it stocked with great foods and fine herbs. Immediately in my glory, as cooking was a Zen thing for me and always a way of sharing love, I immediately began chopping herbs and separating egg yolks and egg whites. The minute I saw the smoked salmon, fresh dill and muffin tins (the man had muffin tins on his boat), I got this idea for baked eggs with salmon drizzled with a dill hollandaise sauce. Add some English muffins and fruit and we’d be good to go until later in the day.

“Something smells amazing down there,” Wes yelled down at me.

“Few more minutes.” I was ladling the sauce over the perfectly browned muffin-shaped eggs, feeling very proud of myself.

I bounded the steps, bringing everything to the teak table in a few loads and called to Wes.

“Tara. Holy smokes, this looks amazing.”

“Now let’s just hope it tastes that way. Would really hate to poison you the first time I cooked for you.” We sat down across from one another; Wes with the smile of a Cheshire cat.

Taking his first bite, he closed his eyes, the grin on his face sublime. “Oh my God. I’m kidnapping you and never letting you off this boat. Gorgeous and she can cook.”

“They did come out good.” I was relieved, as I dug in, my appetite more voracious from the fresh air than I’d expected.

“This is delicious.”

“Well, you had great ingredients for me to play with and I love to cook. I see fresh herbs and I’m in creative heaven.”

“I’m now embarrassed by my chicken kebobs.” His smile was sheepish as he took another egg muffin from the tray, poked a hole in the top and poured a drowning dose of dill hollandaise into it, until the sauce covered the plate to its edges. “Would it be rude to lick my plate?”

“Your boat. Your rules.”

“Licking is fully acceptable then.”

“Good rule,” I muttered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I think I’ll save some of this sauce.” Wes’ smile was playful. “For dessert.”



“I’d forgotten what a cute town this is and how hilly.” With a slip secured at Danford’s Hotel & Marina nestled in Port Jefferson harbor, we wandered in and out of the town’s little shops.

“Taste this.” Wes had speared a piece of salami on a toothpick and was about to feed it to me. The look on his face made me want to eat more than the single slice of salami. I could see his amusement and feel the sexual tension building between us in the farm-to-gourmet store.

With a smile, I opened my mouth for him. “Oh yum, that is good. I love the fennel in it.”

“That is produced at a local farm just east of Riverhead,” the woman behind the counter informed us. “Have you tried the Chianti Salami?”

We shook our heads no and she produced a long, thin salami from the case, cutting slices for each of us. The minute the taste buds on the side of my tongue savored the salt, I turned to Wes, who was looking at me like someone was giving him a hand job. The man was on the brink of a new kind of oral gratification.

“Okay, can we get a half pound of this and a half pound of the fennel, thinly sliced? What cheeses do you like?” He turned to me.

“I love the triple crèmes and any kind of blue cheese or gorgonzola.”

“We are so damn compatible,” he laughed, leaning in for a kiss and I could feel my greed rising as I yearned for the softness of his lips. Lord help those poor women who had to kiss thin-lipped men.

Out on the street, he pointed to a local coffee shop. “Want to grab us some coffees and I’ll run down the hill and put the food on the boat.”

“Sure, what are you drinking?” Thrilled I didn’t have to climb back up the hill, I was glad to let him go alone.